Awakening
by intothemystic
Summary: Jim's first moments after waking up in hospital following the shooting
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Blind Justice and its characters do not belong to me. I just wanted to take 'em out and play with them for a bit. I promise not to sell 'em.

A/N: A quick blurb on Jim's experience on awakening in the hospital. Enjoy.

The pain is a cloud enveloping him. It undulates and mounts as his mind slowly returns from the vast emptiness where it has lain for the past forty-eight hours. His throat is like parchment, dry and cracking. He doesn't try to move. The pain is too intense. He hears a hoarse moan and wonders passingly who it is. He doesn't recognize his own voice through the throbbing orchestra sounding off in his head. Nausea surges upward like a rogue wave and sweat stands out on his brow. He turns his head to the side, vomiting copiously, retching painfully. The orchestra in his head is thundering. He hears ragged gasps and feels hot breath assaulting his dry lips. He hears another raspy cry and then there is silence again as he tumbles into the painless abyss of unconsciousness.

Hours later, there are voices. They are female, and distant. They are high pitched. Grating against the pain that continues to throb inside his skull. His mind is dulled—cotton wrapped and muted. He tries to swallow. Moisture is applied to fractured lips. He sucks hungrily at it, craving more. His tongue darts out, exploring the rough terrain of his lips. He tastes dried blood. Blood. His eyes flash open. It is dark. He widens them. It is dark. He is waking now. His heart is pounding. He hears himself gasp. His hands fly outward, clutching for purchase in the darkness. They close around cold metal on each side. Bedrails?

"What…?" He struggles to formulate a thought. He hears his breathing quickening. Nausea threatens. The voices are beside him. How are they beside him? How can he not see someone beside him?

"The lights," he manages. He is rolling on unseen waves and can't find equilibrium.

"Turn on the lights." He screams the words this time and the sound is jarring inside his throbbing head.

Firm hands are on his shoulders now. He feels one on his right, stroking, trying to soothe. The one on his left is shaking him slightly.

"Mr. Dunbar?"

"Mr. Dunbar, can you hear me?"

He turns his head in the direction of the voice. He grabs the hand shaking him, jarring him, and throws it off his shoulder forcibly.

"Turn on the goddamned lights! What is this?" he rasps. His hands scuttle out to the sides again, groping for the cold rails. He pulls himself up, breath coming in ragged gasps. 

"What is this?" He demands again.

"Mr. Dunbar, please calm down. You're safe."

The voice is on his left he turns his head. Eyes wide.

"What?"

"I'm Dr. Sims, Mr. Dunbar. You are at Mt. Sinai on the trauma ward."

His hands come up to his face, clawing at his eyes. He is right they are open. Nausea rolls in his stomach. He shakes his head. Blinks. Once, twice, three times. It is dark.

"Mr. Dunbar? Can you hear me?"

He turns to the voice again. "Yes."

"Do you remember how you came to be here?"

His mind rolls over the moments. The bank. Terry. A shooter.

"The bank," he rasps.

"That's right. You were shot, Mr. Dunbar."

Blinking. Open. Close. Open. Close. It is dark. Why is it dark?

"I can't see. Why can't I see?"

He hears a quick in-drawing of breath to his right. He has forgotten someone was there. He turns his head that way. His hands rub his eyes fiercely. Still nothing. Seconds slide by and he lists back against the pillows, wilting with fear. He feels a rivulet of sweat slip down the back of his neck.

Sims is speaking again. His voice is distant; beyond the throbbing drum beat of his heart and the pain blooming anew inside his head.

"Mr. Dunbar? You still with me?"

"Yeah."

"Can you see this, sir?"

A click and then silence. He blinks again. His fingers touch his eyeballs. They are open. It is dark.

"This?" A rustle of fabric near his face. He flinches away from the sudden touch of a latex-gloved hand on his right eye.

"Easy. Let me have a look."

He tries to control his breathing. Fingers lift his lids. He feels a hand on his chin, pushing his head to the left. Turning his head to the right. His brain swims. Another wave of nausea catches up with him.

"I'm gonna be sick," he gasps.

"Hang on, I'll get a kidney basin." He starts at the sound of another voice—this one beyond his feet, at the end of his bed. It is a woman. A nurse? Vomit is rising in his throat. He searches fruitlessly for somewhere to let it up. A cold hand gripping his right arm startles him again. Something plastic is thrust into his hand. He clutches at it, his fingers probing it frantically. He brings it to his chin and is sick again. He settles his throbbing head on the pillow behind him. He holds the bin in shaking hands, hoping he doesn't spill. A gentle hand flutters against his.

"I'll take it," comes the female voice again. He relinquishes the basin. He looks around trying to locate the doctor again. He swipes at his eyes once more.

"I'm giving you something for the pain and nausea, Mr. Dunbar," He feels a gentle tug at an IV he hadn't noticed in his left hand and a slight burning as something washes into him. 

He says nothing for a moment. He squeezes his eyes shut momentarily and then opens them again. Checks to see that they are open with his fingers. He closes them again, and keeps them closed now. He can still hear someone breathing to his left. He doesn't think this person has spoken yet. Another nurse?

"Mr. Dunbar, I'm afraid the gunshot may have damaged your optic nerves."

"I'm can't be sure to what extent. We couldn't determine what the damage was at all until you woke up. We're going to need to do some more tests now that you're awake."

"How long?" he rasps.

"Sir?"

"How long 'til I know?"

"We'll do the tests this afternoon. Try and get some rest now while I make the arrangements."

Rubber soles squeak on the floor as the man moves away from him. He hears a door swing open and closed. It sounds like it's at the end of his bed.

"Mr. Dunbar?" It is the woman again.

He looks toward her voice. It sounds like it is on his left now.

"My name is Julie. I'm your nurse for this shift."

"Oh."

"I have some water here, would you like something to drink?"

Something touches the back of his left hand, startling him, even though she warned him.

"Here it is, Mr. Dunbar."

He raises his hand a little and feels a cup being pressed into it. He lifts it up. His hand is shaking. He goes to sip from the cup. Something pokes his cheek. His other hand comes up, rubbing his cheek gingerly and settles on the edge of the cup, discovering the straw there. He puts it between his lips and sips hungrily at the cold water. When he has slaked his thirst he lowers the cup slowly. He feels it being lifted gently from his hands.

"I'm putting this on your table. It's right here." A hand takes his, and he tries not to flinch away in surprise.

"It's alright. I'm just going to show you where the table is." She lifts his hand to the left and settles it on the table. Then she tugs it over a little further until his fingers encounter the base of the cup.

"Thanks."

He doesn't move his hand, afraid, as he is that he might strike something else on the table and knock it down. He feels her cold fingers on his wrist again as she lifts his hand again and lowers it to his side. She presses the back of his fingers against the rail and slowly lowers them down onto a small plastic device. He turns his hand over to feel it. She gently lifts his thumb and places it onto a button.

"This is your call button," she says softly, "Just press it and I'll be right in, okay?"

"Right," is the best he can muster. Drowsiness is settling heavily upon him. He struggles to open his eyes again, but finds nothing. It is still dark. He hears soft footsteps moving away from him and the swish and click of the door opening and closing again.

He thinks he hears a soft breath again to his right. It is soft, quavering. He wasn't imagining it. Was he? He cocks his ear that way, listening intently. The sound is gone.

"Hello?" he whispers. He wonders vaguely whether he is in a private room.

He sighs and settles back into his pillow. His exhaustion is crushing. For a moment he drifts toward sleep, but then a single shard of the broken crystal of his concussed memory lodges in his consciousness, forcing him back to wakefulness.

The fight. She was leaving him. Panic rises like a wall of water inside of him. He raises a shaking hand and claws at his eyes again. He pushes on his eyeballs with his fingers. A choked sob shudders out of his throat. His breath catches. Did he hear something to his right again? Would she have come? He tosses his head back and forth desperately trying to pick up any clue about who else might be in the room with him.

"Christie?" he ventures, his voice unrecognizable to his own ears.

He hears a soft gasp. There is a grating metallic noise. A chair being pushed back from the bedside? The sharp click of heels moves away from him. Swish. Click. The door is closed again.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Click. Swish. The door is closed again. The room is silent. He settles against the pillow once more, wondering how long he has been in this bed. His headache is dissipating somewhat as the medications take effect but lethargy is wrapping its fingers tightly around him. Through the delirium that is settling in as he tumbles toward the abyss, he wonders vaguely why the lights are off. Soon he sleeps.

An hour passes before pain begins to creep into his unconsciousness, tugging at him, dragging him from one dark realm into another. He groans as sleep slips away and he is deposited back into the throbbing darkness of his consciousness. He is disoriented. He repeats the errors of earlier. He touches his eyes gingerly, wondering at first why the lights are off, and then pressing on his eyeballs, willing them to see as he slowly recalls what the doctor told him earlier. What was his name?

His hands flutter out from his side grasping at air. He is parched. His throat is burning. Was it the medication? His left hand gropes at the air until he grazes his knuckles painfully on the edge of the table beside his bed. Where is the water? He needs water. He licks his lips in anticipation, but in a moment his hand knocks into something and he hears the soft plunk of a Styrofoam cup tipping onto the floor and a splash of water as his drink disappears from his reality.

He wonders if he is still in the hospital. He struggles to keep his thoughts ordered as his concussed neurons lick their wounds and hesitate to return to work. He raises a hand to his forehead, noticing the bandages there for the first time. He fingers the gauze gingerly, searching for the source of his darkness. Here. He finds a tender region on his left temple. His fingers flutter over it delicately, but the pain blooms beneath them regardless, splintering into his head like a host of needles. He is so thirsty. How is it this dry in here?

"Hello?" he whispers tentatively, feeling foolish that he doesn't even know if he is alone or accompanied. He half-hopes he is alone, and that no one is there to bear witness to his vulnerability at the moment, but he also craves something for his thirst. The drive to drink something is nearly as great as the drive to run screaming from the hospital. Only he doesn't' really know where the door is. Or the floor for that matter.

He closes his eyes. One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand. Four-one-thousand. Five-one-thousand. He opens his eyes again, hoping the meditative skills he learned during his martial arts training would some how restore enough calm to allow him some vision. There is nothing.

He closes them again, and keeps them that way.

His head darts up in a moment, however, pain bursting in his head like an over-inflated balloon. The door is opened again. He doesn't know what to do. Does he ask who is there? Does he wait for them to identify themselves? Does the stranger know he cannot see them? Panic rises from his gut and sweat stands out on his brow. He swipes at it with his hand, bumping his elbow painfully on the bed rail as he goes to set his hand back down in his lap.

He waits, breath held unconsciously. He doesn't have the courage to speak at the moment. _Who is it? Who are you? Why don't you speak?_

Soft footsteps approach him. He doesn't know whether to close his eyes or keep them open. Is this stranger looking at him? His muscles tense painfully. He tries to widen his eyes. Wills them to see. He turns his face toward the sound of movement on his right. The chair is moved close to him. He shrinks involuntarily from the screech of metal legs on linoleum.

Still no one speaks.

"Please," he croaks, "Who's there?"

"Jim." A single syllable. It is enough to send shattered images of the bank rattling through his mind.

He closes his eyes now, wishing he could disappear, just as the rest of the world had disappeared from his view.

"I'm…so…sorry," comes Terry's voice from somewhere near his shoulder. He reflexively bats away the hand he feels settling patronizingly on his shoulder. He doesn't speak. What can he possibly say at this moment? It's alright? I'll be okay? At this point there was insufficient evidence for him to make either claim.

"Jim? I tried…you know I tried, right?"

Jim turns his head away from his partner, not wanting the man to see his face. He couldn't fathom what it must look like. Was it a mess? What did his eyes look like? They feel the same—except that it seems someone has pulled a heavy black curtain over them. He mentally reproaches himself for his vanity. What does it matter how he looks?

He isn't sure exactly why Terry is apologizing. He thinks at first that it is just a sympathetic word for a wounded friend, but now he is beginning to wonder if Terry had done or failed to do something at the bank. He can't quite recall. Too much pain and narcotic floating in his head. He wonders in passing what they gave him. He thinks it might be time for some more.

"Jim?" The voice broaches the darkness again.

"I need to rest, Terry," he whispers.

He hears a sigh and shifting fabric, then the painful grating noise of the metal chair being pushed away from the bedside. Footsteps are moving away from him again.

Swish. Click.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: BJ doesn't belong to me, and I didn't create it, and I won't try to sell this story. Just for fun.

Chapter 3

He's not sure if he is awake or asleep. The door just closed, didn't it? How long has he sitting here? He has no idea how much time has elapsed. He recalls something about time and the speed of light from high school physics. He wonders what happens to time when there is no light. It seems time stretches out in the dark.

His thirst is certainly not waning as he waits. He wonders how he will wait until he is better. He is not sure he will survive the day. The only things distracting him from the slow passage of time are the searing pain inside his head and the desert that is his throat. He listens for a moment. There is a low hum from a fan or something above him. Muffled hospital sounds drift in through the door. There is nothing to suggest to him that someone else is in the room now.

Hoping he has some privacy he ventures to probe his face again, trying to ascertain the damage. He feels nothing unusual aside from the bandages around his forehead. He touches a finger to his lids, his eyeballs, eyelashes. It is so hard to believe they are open when there is no hint of anything in front of his eyes. His injured mind is grappling with the reality of what he sees, still tending toward the irrational belief that it is the room that is dark, rather than believing that he is in darkness.

His thoughts are still too muddied to consider the 'what-ifs'. The question makes a feeble attempt to make its presence known in his mind, but he buries it tiredly. Images of the bank flash inside his mind. He closes his eyes, and rests back against his pillow, wishing he had more water. There is Terry. The gunman. A shot. His breath catches. He wonders if it is his memory of the event that stops at that point or just his vision. It's impossible to know. He ponders his last conversation with Christie. If you could call it that. It was mostly her yelling and him listening, head held shamefully in hands as he wondered how he could have been so foolish. It had ended when she slammed out the front door. She had said she was leaving. Where is she now? The thought makes him feel a little nauseous again.

The throbbing in his head is approaching fever pitch, and he is starting to feel a little obsessed about water. He tries to remember the nurse's name, but it has already faded from his dulled mind. Had she shown him a call-button? He only vaguely remembers their interaction. The feeling of a woman's cold hands on his. His hand touching the hard surface of a table. Something plastic? He can't really recall what side she had been on. His thinking is like treading in quicksand. His hands scuttle over the rough sheet that covers his legs. He reaches out to the sides. In an instant his right hand clangs against metal. Bedrail? He grips it; somewhat relieved to find something he can hold onto in this vacuum he finds himself floating in. In another instant, the left hand does the same. He lets his hand drift up and down the rail, searching for a button. He feels a slight bump on a plastic panel on the rail on his left side. He presses it. He hears a click behind him. He waits, presses it again. Click. He waits. Nothing happens. He inches his finger forward and finds another button. He presses it tentatively and cries out when a voice comes booming from above his bed. The sound ricochets inside his tender skull like a pinball and the unexpectedness of it has his heart in his throat. He presses it again, praying he can stop the sound. There is silence. He surmises he has found the television. Another inch forward. Another button. He presses it. He grimaces as the bed he is on hums to life and the head of it begins to rise. Another inch. Another button. The whole bed moves slowly upward now. He grits his teeth and emits a frustrated sigh. He lets his hand drop down to the bed again. It falls on a small plastic object and recognition slowly dawns on him. He turns the object slowly in his hand. A rubbery cord. A button. He has found it. He presses the button. He waits. After an eternity he flinches at the sound of the door opening. Again he finds himself wishing he could disappear. He doesn't know what to do. His eyes widen, searching fruitlessly for the person who is entering the room. Should he speak? Will they identify themselves, unlike Terry? He can't arrive at an answer, as his instincts don't exist in this realm. He has no frame of reference for behaviour in the darkness.

A familiar female voice chirps into his sphere.

"Mr. Dunbar? Did you need something?" He feels relief wash over him. Why can't he remember her name?

"I could really use some more water. I think I dumped the other one," he says hoarsely. His voice sounds strange to him. He sounds so tentative. He hears her come close to his bed. Fabric rustles. There is the soft sound of the empty cup being replaced on the table.

"Sorry," he says, feeling warmth spreading up his cheeks.

"It's no problem. I'll get you some more." Rubber soles squeak away from him. A tap goes on somewhere to his left. He hears a click. A light switch? Rubber soles approach. He tries not to jump when another Styrofoam cup is pressed into his hand. 

"There is a straw," she warns him. He feels himself blush again. He brings his right hand up to the cup and finds the straw there. He reaches tentatively for it with his dry lips and drinks thirstily until he hears the slurp of the straw in the empty cup.

"Thank you," he whispers. He sets his head back against the pillows. He feels the cup being taken from him again.

"How's your head?" She asks, her voice coming from a little further away. He hears something rustling and then feels her hand on his arm.

"It hurts," he says simply. He is at a loss for anything more than rudimentary conversation.

"You need some more meds?" she asks, sounding bright; so incongruous with his view of things at the moment.

"I think so," he murmurs. He is still grappling with fatigue.

"I'm just going to take your blood pressure."

He doesn't respond. He hears her fiddling with something beside him and then feels something wrap around his left arm. He hears the 'hiss' 'hiss', 'hiss' of the cuff being inflated, and he notices she holds her breath as she lets the air out of it. Is she listening?

In a moment, the cuff is removed. Soles squeak away from him. Swish. The door is opening. Is someone coming in? He tenses against the unknown. 

"I'll be right back with some morphine," comes the woman's voice from near the door. Click. He is alone.

She is back in a moment. She announces herself cheerfully as she comes into the room. He wonders absently if she has other patients in the same boat. He feels a tug at his IV tubing again and the brief burn as liquid oblivion slides into his vein again. He is mentally greeting it when a male voice startles him. It comes from his right.

His head whips toward the sound.

"Mr. Dunbar?"

It is the doctor. What is his name? Why can't he think straight?

"I've arranged the tests we spoke of. We're going to do two things. The first is an MRI, and the second is what we call visual evoked potentials. They are going to take you to MRI now. I'll come back and see you once everything is done. Any questions?"

"What are these tests for?"

"They'll show us to what extent your optic nerves are damaged."

"What does that mean? My brain's not working too well right now…"

"It will give us an idea of whether your vision will return, Mr. Dunbar."

_Whether? Isn't that kind of like if? What happened to when?_ The questions fly through his foggy mind faster than he can utter the words. It doesn't matter. He is hearing the rubber soles squeaking away. Swish. Click. The doctor is gone.

He doesn't think about it any further. The door is opening again. He hears a man's voice. He doesn't recognize it. His heart steps up its frantic rhythm as hands take hold of him on either side. He flinches involuntarily away from them, striking his left wrist on the bed rail. He lets out a hiss of pain.

"Sorry, sir. Let me get the bedrails down. We're going to put you on a stretcher here and take you to MRI." The voice sounds like it comes from far above him. It is hoarse. Maybe a smoker? Metal clangs beside him. He feels his bed shudder. Suddenly there is a humming sound and he feels the bed rising slowly again. Then it stops.

"Okay. The stretcher is right here, on your right. Can you slide across onto it?"

He says nothing. He has no idea if he can slide across onto it. His right hand darts out, tentatively, scrabbling over the rough sheet. He feels a gap, and then the hard mattress of the stretcher. He shifts to the right, scooting over to the stretcher. He feels cold air on his legs as he loses track of the sheet. There is a sting in his left hand as his IV runs out of slack. He stops, hoping he hasn't pulled it out. He looks around, wondering if the nurse is still present.

He hears movement on the other side of the bed.

"Okay, Mr. Dunbar, I've got your IV."

He scoots further onto the stretcher, searching for the other side of it, wondering how high it is off the ground. His hand encounters another metal rail. He reaches behind him. The stretcher is flat. He reaches to his left, wanting suddenly to cover himself with the sheet. He is suddenly aware that he is not wearing much. His fingers tug at the short gown. The sheet seems to have disappeared into the darkness. He sighs inwardly and lies back on the stretcher. It shudders with his weight and he clutches at the rail on the right as he feels a wave of vertigo when the stretcher suddenly moves. He grits his teeth against the nausea. Pain is blooming beneath his skull with the brief exertion. He is feeling a little like he might faint. His head is swimming and he can feel himself tumbling back into the abyss. The rail on his left clangs as someone puts it up. He feels cold, rough fabric flutter down on top of his legs and chest. He is moving again.

There is the soft hum of rubber wheels on the floor. They are outside the room now. He is moving quickly. He feels like he is flying and it makes his stomach lurch. He can hear breath huffing out above him. The person pushing him is out of shape. He grabs at the rails again as he feels the stretcher make a sharp turn. He feels as though his brain is sloshing within his skull. It is louder here. Voices of men and women. A loud electrical hum is vibrating all around him. The stretcher jerks to a stop.

The noise is excruciating. He can hear his breathing in his ears as he lies inside the machine. It is fast, frantic. On top of that is the insistent clanging and buzzing of the MRI. The machine seems to be all around him. He wonders what could possibly make it so loud. He tries not to breath. Not to swallow. They instruct him to be still as the banging starts and stops all around him. Do they hear it? Is something wrong? He doesn't know if they can hear or see him, so he denies himself the comfort of asking what is happening.

The MRI is over. He has fumbled his way back onto the stretcher. He is someplace else now. A woman's voice is explaining the process as she sticks cold wet tabs onto his skull and into his hair.

"I'm going to flash a very bright light at you Mr. Dunbar. I want to know if you see anything at all. These electrodes are going to record any activity in your visual cortex."

His head is throbbing. He flinches for the umpteenth time as she places her hands on him without warning. She puts something over his left eye. He wishes she wasn't touching his tender skull.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

He hears wheels on the floor in front of him. Is she sitting on a stool?

"Alright. We're going to start now."

A click.

"Anything?"

"No," he responds flatly.

Click.

Click.

Click.

There is nothing. She uncovers his left eye and covers the right.

Click.

Click.

Click.

There is nothing.

He endures the rest of the test, fighting off sleep. There is little to distract him from the fatigue that is once again trying to take him.

The ride back to his room is as vertiginous as the ride to the tests, only now he has a mounting fear. He is beginning to allow questions to take purchase inside his mind. It must be because he knows answers are soon to follow. He is tiring of the darkness. He feels as though he has been amputated from the world, and it is wearing him down. He fights madly against the thought that this might not recover. He has a new distraction now. His bladder is full.

Soon they tell him he is in his room again. He finds it curious that this is his room. He has no idea how long he has been in it. He has no idea what it looks like. He has no idea what floor it is on, or even what hospital this is. Has no one bothered to fill him in on these details or has his porous mind just let it all slip away? He doesn't bother to ask. He can't see the point.

As his stretcher and his stomach lurch to a stop in 'his room' he tries to work up the courage to find out where the bathroom is. He hears the rail clang down from the side of the stretcher and feels a rough hand on his arm tugging him upright. He shakes it off, ignoring the lightening bolts firing off in his head.

He clears his throat and lays a hand gingerly on his forehead. He keeps his face directed downward. He doesn't know where else to look.

"Where's the john?" he croaks.

He is surprised to hear the nurse's voice again. I'll take you Mr. Dunbar. His heart sinks. He had half-hoped she wasn't there. Maybe the man pushing the stretcher might have pointed him in the right direction.

He feels her light touch on his left arm. She guides him off the stretcher. His head swims as he stands for the first time in…he doesn't know how long. He reaches out with his other hand to steady himself but finds nothing to hold onto. There is only the void. He feels her reach behind him and fiddle. Must be the IV again. In a minute she has his left hand. He lets her guide it and she presses it around a cold metal pole.

"Hold onto the IV pole for balance," she instructs. He clutches it like a life raft. She tugs on his arm and he stumbles after her. She leads him forward, right, left. He hears a door swing open. He wonders if they are in the hall again, but she stops him abruptly.

She guides his right hand straight ahead to something cold.

"Here's the sink."

She takes him to the left and tugs his hand down in front of him.

"The toilet. The door is right in front of the sink. Will you be alright if I wait outside?"

"Yes," he grinds out, fear of being alone in this vacuum beginning to win out over his pride.

She is gone now. A door clicks shut behind him. He clutches the pole in his left hand and reaches down tentatively. He prepares to empty his bladder, and suddenly realizes he doesn't know where to aim. Hot tears burn his eyes. He gropes for the seat and sits down heavily. He holds his heavy head gingerly in both hands, wincing as he tugs on the IV line once again.

He feels tears trailing down his face and lets them fall. He shoves a fist harshly against his mouth; biting back a sob that is fighting it's way out of him. After a few moments he stands. He waits impatiently for the wave of lightheadedness to leave him. He pulls the IV pole forward. His right hand is outstretched before him. He is glad for the IV pole to steady him, as it feels like the ground is moving under his feet. He can't find his balance. A high pitched ringing tone joins the cacophony of his harsh breathing, pounding heart, and overwhelming fear inside his head. There is a hiss of pain as his left elbow collides with porcelain. He has found the sink. He reaches out his right arm. _Where is the goddamned door?_ He moves further right until his knuckles graze the wall. His fingers flutter over the rough surface right, then left until he feels the doorframe, and finally the handle. He turns the knob and pushes the door open. He takes a tentative step forward, unsure of where he is now. Is he inside his room? Is this the hallway? His bed could be two feet in front of him or two hundred. Any sense of dimension is absent. He sags against the doorframe, fatigue overwhelming him again.

Rubber soles approach him. Cold fingers grasp his arm. This time they guide his hand to her arm. 

"This is the best way to do it," she says confidentially, leading him forward. A hand takes his and guides it to the edge of the bed.

"Here you are. Can you get in?"

"Yeah." His voice is barely a whisper. He crawls into the bed, every movement setting off fireworks of pain in his temples. He settles back in bed and feels it shudder and clang as she puts the bedrail up. 

He reaches out with his right hand again, groping along the bedrail and over it, searching for the table. He hears her move it and in an instant his fingers graze the hard surface. He is about to reach forward to seek out his cup of water when she presses it against the back of his hand.

"Here it is."

He takes it gratefully and swallows some. He lets his hand come down so the cup is in his lap. He doesn't want to pour it on the floor again. He is reluctant to let it go. In the silence of the moment he hears the nurse's soft soles moving about the room.

"I'm sorry, miss. I…can't remember your name," he says tentatively, hoping that a name might make her seem less like an apparition or disembodied voice.

"It's Julie. Don't worry, your head will clear once you have had some more rest."

"Thanks."

He closes his eyes for a moment, but then they fly open again and his head whips to the right. There is someone beside him, and it's not Julie. He can still here her moving about the room. He hears a breath catch just inches from him. His heart is in his throat again. He hears Julie's movements stop. There is a movement in front of him. He hears fabric rustling. 

"Who's there?" he demands sharply, stung by the fact that someone has been watching him fumble his way back into bed and grope around for his water.

Julie is beside him again.

"Mr. Dunbar, your wife is here."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: BJ belongs to people other than me. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter 4

His head snaps up like he has been slapped. In an instant, his mind swirls around all the implications of the nurse's words. Christie has been here. Watching him. Watching him stumble out of the bathroom. Watching him struggle into bed. To find a drink of water. He wants to disappear. He wants to evaporate. He wants to be hidden in the same darkness that is hiding everything around him. He wishes she wasn't here. How could she not say something? How could she watch him in silence? He realizes how surprised he is that she has come at all. He thinks she would be within her rights to let him rot in this hospital. He wants to pretend everything is fine and put on a brave face, but he imagines she can plainly see that nothing is fine. Everything is completely screwed.

He holds his breath for a second, listening to her breathing, rapid and shallow beside him. How can she sit there and say nothing? He debates what to do. He turns his head toward her and decides to go with his gut, which is still flip-flopping with nausea, now made worse by the knowledge that his wife has been seated beside him, soundlessly bearing witness to his actions for several minutes.

"Christie?"

He hears her take a steadying breath. Her voice sounds tight as she speaks. Like there isn't any room for another drop of emotion in it.

"Hi Jimmie." She is close, but he can't say how close. He fights the urge to reach out and find her. To ground the disembodied voice that is hovering to his right.

"How long have you been here?" he asks, venturing to reveal just how stunned he is to learn that she is sitting right beside him.

"Just since you were in the washroom."

He brings a hand to his face and swipes at the tears he had forgotten there. He is at a loss.

"Oh."

He lets his hand crawl out from his side, searching for the bedrail. He needs something solid to hold onto. He feels like he is floating in space, but that the stars have disappeared. He needs something to grip so that he knows the world around him still exists. He needs to feel it, because then he'll know that this is real. His fingers hover in the air, searching, for a few moments before they strike the metal again. He wraps them around the bar tightly, wondering obsessively if she was watching his face or his hand, lost in the air between them.

"I can't see, Chris," he blurts, tears stinging his eyes again. He hears Christie's breath catch. The words sound jagged coming off his lips. He wonders how it is that he is sitting here in the darkness, speaking these words to the wife who was leaving. His head jerks to the left as he hears the door to the room again. He listens carefully, wondering if the nurse left or if someone else came in. He doesn't dare to ask. He feels heat rising in his face as he flushes from embarrassment at flinching in front of his wife. He is supposed to be strong. Brave.

"I know Jimmy. The doctors told me."

"When?" He is fighting away the tears, praying that they don't fall again.

"I ran into Dr. Sims at the desk when I came in just now. He said he had some test results for us."

_Us?_

"I'm sorry, Christie. I don't deserve you being here right now." His voice is heavy with the contrition, which though sincere, feels awkward and trite to him.

"You're right." Her voice is like a sheet of ice. He wishes she would lay a hand on him in spite of it. He's worried he is just imagining her.

He doesn't have a chance to reply to her. The door opens again. There are footsteps moving toward him. It sounds like there is more than one person coming in. He shifts nervously, waiting for someone to say what is happening. Wishing he knew how he was supposed to address unseen people.

"Mr. Dunbar, it's Dr. Sims here. I've brought along Dr. Wainright as well."

"How do you do, Mr. Dunbar?" A soft female voice comes from his left. He starts slightly as someone reaches over him and grasps his right hand, which was still wrapped around the bedrail, and shakes it firmly. He feels himself flush at missing the obvious gesture.

He says nothing in reply. He turns his face towards the sound of the two doctors' feet shifting on the tiles. He fights the urge to cover his ears as he hears a heavy chair dragging across the tiles towards the bed. He hears the table being pushed away from beside him. He wonders absently if they will put it back.

He hears a slight grunt from the male physician as he seats himself. His voice comes from immediately beside Jim now. He turns his head further towards the sound, feeling pain tugging at the base of his skull as he cranes his neck to the left.

He brings a hand up and rubs at his neck, waiting for them to speak.

"Mr. Dunbar, I'm afraid I have bad news."

The man's voice is coming to him from a great distance. He feels a cool hand take his right one now, a digit stroking his palm. His addled mind wonders who would be holding his hand.

"The MRI showed significant micro bleeds…." The voice is tinny, muffled, almost annoying. He settles his head into the pillow. His eyes close. He needs to sleep.

"The evoked potential test showed no response in either eye. I'm afraid your optic nerves….. irreparably damaged…" Who is that speaking to him? He wonders how someone can say all those words with so little emotion. His head throbs intensely.

Someone is shaking his shoulder. He flicks the hand away reflexively.

"Mr. Dunbar? Did you hear me?" It is the doctor's voice again.

Jim opens his eyes. For the third time today, he runs his fingers over them, checking that they are open. Panic bubbles up within him again. He notices as if for the first time that someone is squeezing his right hand. He pulls it loose and claws at his eyes again.

"I can't see," he mutters, puzzled again by what is happening.

"Mr. Dunbar, you are blind." The words ring in his head like a siren. He jerks his face toward the sound of the siren.

"Blind?" he repeats, feeling like his mouth is full of cotton.

"Yes. I'm afraid there is very little chance that you will recover any vision." His words are deafening.

"Mr. Dunbar?" He is speaking softly now, gently. "Dr. Wainright here is our clinical psychologist. Would you like some time to speak with her?"

He shakes his head slightly, numbly.

"I'm available if you change your mind." A female voice speaks unexpectedly from near the other doctor. He has forgotten she is there.

"Get the hell out of here," he whispers. His voice sounds like a scream inside his head.

"Jimmie," a scolding voice comes from his right. He turns his head slowly in that direction, puzzling over what Christie is doing at the hospital with him. He hears footsteps moving away from the bed. Swish. Click. They are gone. He hears his breath rasping from between parched lips. He searches fruitlessly in front of him, willing himself to see if she is still seated before him. If she is, she is holding her breath again.

He pushes himself up in bed, groaning against the pain that shoots through his skull. He reaches out with his left hand, fingers gesturing meaninglessly in the air as he tries to find the table. The cup. He moves his arm right and left. Suddenly he hears movement on his right. She is still there. She comes around the bed. He hears the table moving again. He falls back into bed. His hand settles in his lap.

"Here," she says softly, incapable of understanding that the word has become meaningless for him. He turns his head towards her and stares mutely ahead. He can tell she is trembling, from her ragged breathing. She touches his hand tentatively with her own. He shivers at the unexpected contact. She lifts his hand and places the cup in it. "Have some water," she whispers. He takes a sip and then holds the cup out in front of him. It feels like it weighs a thousand pounds at that moment. He prays silently that she will take it before he drops it on his lap.

He lies back in the bed. He closes his eyes. He can hear her breathing near him. She is on his left.

"Christie?"

"I'm here," she whispers, strain coming through in her voice. He doesn't hear her move toward him. When she doesn't speak, it is like she doesn't exist. He feels naked and exposed. Knowing she is standing there, but making no effort to touch him, he wonders if she is trying to punish him.

"Please, Christie," he rasps.

In a moment he feels the bed shudder and clang as she lowers the bed rail. The mattress shifts slightly as she settles on the edge beside him. He feels her pressed up against his left thigh. Her hair tickles the side of his face as she takes him in a strong embrace. He brings his arms around her and clings tightly to her small frame. He is careening in the darkness. Sobs burst forth from him, and his body shakes painfully as the magnitude of what has happened begins to crystallize. He clutches her like the last vestige of the light, praying that she won't disappear too.


End file.
